


All Is Lost

by Pandemicron



Category: Cats - Andrew Lloyd Webber
Genre: BAMF!Tugger, Blood and Violence, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 08:19:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19353094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pandemicron/pseuds/Pandemicron
Summary: While battling a rogue group of cats in the Junkyard, Mistoffelees learns something unexpected about Tugger.





	All Is Lost

**Author's Note:**

> Just a random headcanon in written form, sort of explaining why Tugger was missing during the Macavity fight. It's purely self-indulgent and shouldn't be taken seriously at all.

_ The Rum Tum Tugger is a weakhearted coward. _

All things considered, other cats whispering and gossiping about his friend wasn’t news to Mistoffelees. Throughout his relatively short life, he’d heard all manner of lauding and labels when it came to the most popular cat in the Junkyard, and like most of the other Jellicles with a lick of sense, he’d learned to roll his eyes and write it off just as well as anyone. But never before had he heard something like this.

_ The Rum Tum Tugger doesn’t care for courage. _

And truthfully, though it pained him, he could kind of see why. As the crash of falling rubbish and piercing yowls rang out on the other side of the Junkyard, he crouched low beneath a half-fallen bicycle wheel, watching as the kittens cowered and mewled in their den, voices quivering with fear. Sitting next to them, Tugger bent to whisper something Mistoffelees couldn’t catch. Whatever it was only made the kittens cry harder.

They’d all become practiced at watching for Macavity and his creeping henchmen, always on the prowl to sow trouble and chaos amongst the Jellicles, but in so doing, they’d let down their guard. Now a rival tribe eager for new territory engaged Munkustrap, Alonzo, and the other adults on the opposite side of the Junkyard, unpredictable and dangerous in their newness. Mistoffelees, Pouncival, and the other younger, more inexperienced cats had been assigned to hold a final perimeter here to defend the kittens, their tribe’s most vulnerable. And he could understand the reasoning, but he hadn’t expected Tugger to be here with them.

As the biggest cat in the tribe, Tugger should’ve been right up there with his brother, teeth bared and claws unsheathed in defense of their home. Wasn’t he always going on and on about his physique and his brilliance, after all? Yet when the street cats showed up, he hadn’t done anything, not like Munkustrap who leaped immediately in front of the others, or Alonzo who hissed so loudly it echoed across the entire yard. No, instead Tugger exchanged some sort of look with his older brother, something so loaded it was beyond Misto’s comprehension. And then he’d turned tail and run straight to the den, herding the kittens inside before planting himself at the opening.

He’d fled. Like a coward.

_ The Rum Tum Tugger is a— _

He didn’t get to hear the rest because something exploded across the Junkyard, followed by a high-pitched shriek. Mistoffelees didn’t recognize the voice—it had to be someone from the rival tribe—but he clearly saw how Tugger flinched and crouched closer to the den, as if contemplating throwing up his paws and crawling right in with the kittens himself. And Moon forgive him because Tugger was his closest friend, a stolid and unwavering support over the past couple of years as Misto stumbled and stuttered through learning his magic, but in that one instant, Mistoffelees hated him. The Rum Tum Tugger was a liar and a coward. The Rum Tum Tugger had misled them, had misled  _ him _ , into thinking he was more than he was, and if the street cats overwhelmed the Jellicle defenders and Mistoffelees and Pouncival and the others were forced to fight and Tugger wouldn’t even lift a paw to help them—

Another explosion. It rocked the ground beneath his feet, sent the bicycle wheel falling over with a crash. Mistoffelees gulped and fought an instinctive urge to run, to escape while he still had the chance because now he could hear it: the hisses and growls getting closer, not all of them voices he knew. Munkustrap was losing. The fight was coming to them.

The kittens cried, voices high and trembling in the dark. The other young cats shrank into their hiding places, whispering urgently with fear. Next to Mistoffelees, Pouncival trembled all over, body a tense wire as ready to flee as to fight. And Tugger sat in the midst of it all, too scared to protect them.

And then it happened.

A snarl, a paw-swipe so forceful they all heard the whistle as claws raked the air. And then a cry of real pain, of deep injury, and this voice Mistoffelees knew. Something heavy hit the ground with a solid, sickening thud, and an instant later the stench of Munkustrap’s blood clogged their noses.

As Mistoffelees whined and pawed at his whiskers, another pained hiss sounded out: Alonzo. Pouncival moaned at his mate’s distress, but before Mistoffelees could turn to comfort him, a deep, rumbling growl rolled through the Junkyard.

It froze him in his tracks as sharp as a sheet of freezing rain. It was primal, guttural, a predator through and through: a promise of fury and violence and an eons-old savagery. It was the kind of sound that hearkened back to the times before the Jellicle Moon, before the Ball and the songs and the Naming of Cats, when there was only long grass and low light, the noiseless padding of unsheathed claws and the desire to hunt and eat and destroy.

And it came from the biggest cat in the Junkyard.

Mistoffelees blinked, staring as Tugger rose from the den and walked into the moonlight. Gone was the rockstar, the cat who played pranks and pulled tails and lived off the swooning of others. When Tugger turned to look at him, the glint in his eyes made something cold and close to terror shiver down Mistoffelees’s spine. Suddenly he didn’t recognize his friend at all.

“Pouncival,” Tugger said then, as Mistoffelees’s companion stiffened. “Watch the kits. Mistoffelees,” and here Misto caught just a quick hesitation, the briefest of pauses and a soft breath, as of surrender, of giving in. “Cover me.”

And then, with two great leaps, he was over the pile of boxes and rubbish separating them from the battle.

Mistoffelees scrambled to follow, even as confusion twisted his insides and sent his thoughts scattering like startled sparrows. What had just happened? Who was this cat who had replaced his flamboyant friend, whose eyes were now solid steel and whose voice struck down like thunder?

He crested the trash pile and barely suppressed a strangled moan. The battlefield was chaos: rubbish everywhere, loose papers and plastic cups scattered throughout. The tire upon which Old Deuteronomy loved to sit had fallen sideways and was rent through with several deep tears. Splashes of blood and bits of torn fur littered the ground, and several cats lay panting in the mud, unwilling—or unable—to rise. One of them, to Mistoffelees’s horror, was Munkustrap: their protector lay in a rapidly-expanding pool of red, silver fur darkened to muddy black. Jellylorum and Mungojerrie crouched protectively over him, both nursing wounds of their own, while Alonzo stood a few feet away, Skimbleshanks and Bombalurina at his back, clearly favoring one of his front legs, white fur spotted through with blood.

The Jellicles had given as good as they got, of course: the invaders weren’t much better off, bloody and torn up with at least two down for the count. But they were a large group, bigger than anything Mistoffelees could remember the tribe challenging in his life, and with Munkustrap gravely injured and Alonzo unable to fight, it was entirely possible they were about to lose the Junkyard—and their lives.

All cats, Jellicle or not, knew feline war rarely took prisoners.

The rival tribe’s leader, a medium-sized tom with a torn-off ear and thick brown stripes all down his flank, hissed, crouched, and prepared to leap. Mistoffelees quickly cast about for something to magic, a quick teleportation could upend a can of rotting sludge or otherwise distract the invaders long enough that they could get Munkustrap out, could plan a retreat—

A thump, a yowl, and the one-eared cat went flying into a pile of rusted paint cans. As they tumbled over him with a crash, the rest of the rival tribe hissed and shrank back from the eighteen-pound cat suddenly within their midst, a wall of solid muscle and fur. One of the strange queens arched her back, claws glinting. “Who’re you?”

Tugger turned to cast a glance at Munkustrap. The Jellicles’ protector didn’t stir, breaths slow and labored as Jellylorum and Mungojerrie tried frantically to stop the bleeding, and in the half-moonlight Mistoffelees saw Tugger’s expression twist and warp, real fury drawing his lips back from his fangs as he turned back to the other tribe.

“I’m his brother,” he growled, and leapt.

And the rest was war.

The few remaining Jellicles joined the fray as well, but they needn’t have bothered. Mistoffelees stared as Tugger met three rival cats head-on, kicking one hard enough to knock out teeth, swiping and clawing and biting the others until they streaked from the yard, yowling in pain. His sharp teeth clamped down on a skinny tom that had cornered Bombalurina, and Mistoffelees clearly saw the other cat’s entire body go limp as Tugger severed his spine. A nearby queen got a paw to the face so hard it tore her cheek open, and another a savage bite deep enough to flay his shoulder down to the bone. Blood flew and gristle crunched, and it didn’t take long for Mistoffelees to realize.

Tugger hadn’t been held back with the kittens because he shared their weak hearts. He’d been assigned as their last line of defense. Munkustrap knew what no one else did: should he and the others fail, the future of their tribe would need a solid, impenetrable wall to defend them.

The Rum Tum Tugger was that wall.

Munkustrap and the others fought only to defend. They maimed and disabled and drew blood as best they could to discourage attackers and reestablish territorial rights. They harmed egos, not souls; they did things as Jellicles would, so that next Ball they could still dance and sing with the love and acceptance of the tribe.

But Tugger. Tugger had none of their grace, none of their restraint. His claws dripped blood and his teeth ripped flesh from bone with chilling precision and ruthless purpose. Where his brother fought to incapacitate, the Rum Tum Tugger fought to kill.

A dark-minded predator wearing a Jellicle’s skin.

The rival tribe’s leader, to his credit, rallied the best he could. More cats crept from the shadows, took their turn leaping at Tugger, and the lucky ones limped away with broken bones and slashed-open sides.

The unlucky ones didn’t leave at all.

In the end, Mistoffelees hardly did anything. At one point he threw his voice to distract a cat stalking Tugger in his blind spot, and he sparked a lightning bolt near Alonzo so Skimble could tackle another cat trying to finish off their second-in-command. But less than five minutes later, the battle was over. The surviving invaders scattered and, left alone on a gristly battlefield littered with bodies and blood, Tugger sat back and began licking his wounds.

The fight showed on him clearly: his mane was a scraggly mess and large patches of fur were missing from his flanks and his tail. He left bloody pawprints as he circled under the moon, and the side of his face bled where a lucky cat had torn out a couple whiskers. Under ordinary circumstances, queens and kittens would have been all over him, cooing and jostling each other for the right to clean his wounds and groom his fur.

Tonight, no one approached.

Distantly, he heard the kittens still mewling, followed by Pouncival’s low voice as he tried to comfort them. Alonzo lowered himself to the ground with a soft whine of pain and began licking the blood from his fur. Tentatively, Mistoffelees stepped out into the light. Tugger stiffened immediately, glowing eyes fixed on him with a purposeful intent, heavy in a way he had never felt from his friend. Blood still stained his teeth and Mistoffelees clearly saw one paw was broken, but Tugger hardly seemed to notice, gaze following Mistoffelees’s every move.

He didn’t know how long they stood there, eyeing each other as the Junkyard bled around them. There was something different in Tugger’s eyes Misto wasn’t used to seeing; something not evil—for this was Tugger, after all—but disused, as of something that had been banished to some dark underground place and only just now returned to the light. Mistoffelees didn’t like it, exactly, but neither did he find that it made him uncomfortable. It was  _ Tugger _ , was the best he could explain it: flayed open under the moonlight, yet still Mistoffelees’s closest friend at his purest and most true.

And then Tugger blinked and a profound sadness washed over his features, enough that Misto’s own heart tightened in his chest. Before he could ask, a commotion nearby caught his attention, and he turned to watch as Demeter, Jennyanydots, and a group of other queens crowded around Munkustrap, still bleeding and unconscious in the dirt. From this angle Mistoffelees couldn’t see how bad the damage was, but from Demeter’s soft, distressed cries, he knew it wasn’t good.

When he turned back, Tugger was gone. The moonlight illuminated the wreckage of the Junkyard, the Jellicles’ best fighter vanished into the night, leaving only blood and cooling bodies in his wake.

A streetlamp died and a new day dawned. Munkustrap, wounds too grave for the Junkyard’s magic, went home to his humans to walk the thin shadowed line between this world and the Layer. No other Jellicles required such care, though Alonzo retreated with Pouncival to his den to recover in the quiet and warmth most needed by injured felines.

It was here Mistoffelees found him a few days after the fight, bringing a freshly-killed sparrow as tribute. Alonzo purred at the gift, made room amongst the soft blankets and, in that way of his that often frustrated his mate to no end, seemed to know exactly what was on Mistoffelees’s mind. “He hasn’t come back yet, has he?”

Mistoffelees shook his head. No one had seen or scented Tugger since that night, and though Bombalurina and Mungojerrie led patrols deep into the bowels of the city, there was no trace of him to be found. Mistoffelees didn’t quite like the reaction of some other Jellicles to this news, though. They should’ve been worried for Tugger, wondered where he was and if he still bled. But instead what he heard when he walked through the Junkyard was  _ good riddance. _

_ The Rum Tum Tugger is a monster in disguise. _

_ The Rum Tum Tugger is better off gone. _

He must not have hidden the growing anger as well as he thought because the bundle of white-and-brown fur curled up next to Alonzo shuddered and shifted, restless. Alonzo responded by giving Pouncival a soft, comforting lick, enough to send his young mate back into sleep.

“Sorry,” Mistoffelees said, sheepish. He should have better control, he knew, but then again, he’d always had Tugger to ground him whenever the magic sparked up particularly strong. And the Rum Tum Tugger was gone.

Alonzo shrugged. “He doesn’t mind.” Sparrow bones crunched for a while, and the older cat licked his paws clean before fixing Mistoffelees with a knowing look. “You’ve never seen it, have you? Tugger fighting.”

“No.” Chasing queens, sure, and swaggering and laughing and playing tricks that made Munkustrap growl and swipe halfheartedly at his head, but Mistoffelees had always thought Tugger the epitome of that curious human saying of being a lover, not a fighter. He recalled Tugger as he’d last seen him, bloody and triumphant under the pale moon, and shuddered. “Has he…did he…?”

“He doesn’t often.” Alonzo stretched, careful not to kick Pouncival. “Early on, so Straps tells me, he used to fight all the time. That was before the Junkyard, you know, before the Ball, when Old Deuteronomy was still looking to establish a home territory. Back then, you could say Tugger was almost singlehandedly responsible for us not being overtaken or slaughtered by an already-established tribe.

“They saw it clearly back then, what he could do, the way he fights. I wouldn’t say it scared them; you’ve  _ met _ Tugger, right? But by the time I joined the Jellicles, an agreement had been made.”

Mistoffelees nodded. “So now he hides during battles.”

“I wouldn’t say that. More like he…holds himself back? We don’t really talk about it; it’s more between him and Straps. But my understanding is that Tugger likes it this way. He’s not ashamed of his strength, we wouldn’t be here if not for him, but I think he prefers for us to see a different side of him.”

“I see.” And truthfully, Mistoffelees kind of did. After all, he had gone to his first few Balls disguised as Quaxo, so no one would notice him and single him out for those unsteady powers he was still working to master. Of course, even with the illusion of white carefully diffused into his fur, he hadn’t been able to hide from Tugger, who’d promptly cornered him after his first Ball to demand why he smelled so strange. Mistoffelees had only been able to get him to back off by throwing sparks into the air, which at first startled and then promptly delighted the older cat, and he’d half-expected the entire tribe to know all about it the next morning, what with Tugger being outspoken as he was, but Tugger had kept his secret. And now, Mistoffelees found he finally had some inkling as to why.

“Do you know where he is?” he asked.

Alonzo shook his head, expression suddenly distant. “The last time I saw him fight was before you were born. A pack of stray dogs blundered into the Junkyard, and it was…not pretty. He disappeared afterward, no sign or warning. It got to the point where Straps and Deuteronomy were going to sing him to the Layer the next Ball, an absent ascension, except he turned up that night like nothing had happened.”

Mistoffelees nodded. “So this time, you think…?”

Alonzo shrugged. “He’ll return or he won’t,” he said. “The Rum Tum Tugger does what he wants.”

Such was the truth. Even so, Mistoffelees suddenly found the need to groom for comfort. “I don’t much want to sing him to the Layer,” he confessed. “Not if he isn’t ready.” It was an odd feeling, for to serenade a cat as he or she ascended to the Heaviside Layer was considered a great honor. But he couldn’t forget the sadness in Tugger’s eyes, that profound melancholy he never should have seen in someone as lively and bombastic as his friend. It just didn’t feel right.

“I suppose we’ll see what happens,” Alonzo said diplomatically. He might have added something else, except Pouncival stirred with a sleepy “‘Lonzo…?” and Mistoffelees saw the older cat’s expression instantly soften. He let himself out as quietly as possible.

Weeks passed. Jellicles did what Jellicles could. Alonzo recovered and rejoined the tribe, Pouncival always within tail’s reach. The other adults, too, mended their wounds, and even Munkustrap returned eventually, shaved and stitched and indignant, but healing. No one spoke of the Rum Tum Tugger, but Mistoffelees wandered the borders and alleys of the city regardless, always on the lookout for a warm-honey scent and a flash of golden fur.

Two months to the day of their battle with the rival tribe, the Junkyard was business as usual when they all sensed an approach. Skimbleshanks caught it first and sounded the alarm. Demeter and Bombalurina herded the kittens toward the den while Alonzo and Munkustrap prepared a defense. Mistoffelees joined them, but kept his claws sheathed. The new arrival wasn’t making even an attempt at stealth: the footfalls were clear, grass rustling with every movement.

A few moments later, the Rum Tum Tugger entered the Junkyard.

Mistoffelees’s first impression was that his friend hadn’t seen the inside of a human’s house for a while. He was passably groomed, enough to keep his fur from matting, but his coat had none of that usual gloss and sheen of regular brushing, and his collar was gone. Still-healing pink scars crawled down his flank, and he walked with a pronounced limp, though he could at least place all four paws on the ground without trouble.

The Jellicles, for their part, seemed unsure of how to react. Several cats, particularly the young queens, hissed and ducked away into the cracks and crevices amongst the rubbish. A couple of older toms emitted low warning growls that Tugger summarily ignored, but it was Munkustrap who stepped up to his brother without hesitation, bumping Tugger gently in the shoulder as they relearned each other’s scents. Tugger licked his brother’s ear, receiving an affectionate nudge in response, and Munkustrap moved on, no words needed.

No one else seemed inclined to approach. If this bothered Tugger, he didn’t show it, instead lifting a paw to begin washing his ears. He paused, though, when Mistoffelees stepped forward, and his grin under the moonlight was perhaps a little thinner, a little more brittle than usual, but still genuine. “Looking marvelous as usual, Misto.”

His voice was low and hoarse with disuse, nothing like the smooth baritone that could sing queens from their dens. Mistoffelees stopped a couple feet away and cocked his head. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.

Tugger recommenced bathing, but it was a thin disguise: Mistoffelees clearly saw the flicker of pain in his expression as he glanced across the way at Etcetera and the other young queens, who even now watched him with large, judgmental eyes. “Because that’s how you’d look at me,” Tugger said.

And once upon a time, he might’ve been right. It was only logical to glimpse glowing embers beneath a pile of ash and know to stay the hell out of the fireplace. But the cat that had killed all those others two months ago was also the same cat who’d curled around Mistoffelees without hesitation during a snowstorm last winter, who had a basket next to his by the hearth at home, who’d watched him struggle to contain the electricity and fire within him and had simply laughed and said,  _ Show me what else you got. _

There were many things that scared Mistoffelees, but the Rum Tum Tugger was not one of them.

He closed the distance between them and gave his friend a push. “Lie down.”

Tugger blinked. “What?”

Mistoffelees rolled his eyes. “You’re a mess and you’re tall. Lie down.”

With only brief hesitation, Tugger obeyed. As Mistoffelees climbed carefully over him and began to groom, he made sure to stare directly at the queens and kittens crouched across the way. They chittered and whispered amongst themselves but didn’t approach, and after a while Tugger relaxed beneath him, a slow, rumbling purr starting up so that it was like lying atop an idling car.

It took a long while for him to finish; Tugger’s coat was difficult to manage on the best of days, and the past two months hadn’t exactly helped the situation. Still, by the time he was done, his friend was a boneless, satisfied lump, smiling up at him with that same cheerful grin Mistoffelees had come to rely on, despite his best intentions.

The young queens had disappeared, but it didn’t matter. Munkustrap lounged a few feet away, enjoying a strip of sunlight fallen across the yard. Nearby, Alonzo indulged Pouncival and Tumblebrutus trying to snag his whipping tail, Jellylorum and Jennyanydots argued about something outside one of the dens, and Cassandra and Exotica joined Bombalurina and Demeter in a leisurely group bath. Skimbleshanks told stories to a couple of older kittens, Mungojerrie and Rumpleteazer doing a clownish impersonation behind his back, and Plato and Victoria caught a nap in the shade, piled in with Tantomile and Coricopat.

Some cats had left, but more had stayed. That was enough for any Jellicle.

A sudden tug on his hind leg sent Mistoffelees sprawling with a yelp. Tugger laughed, low, and there was no sadness in him anymore, just that bright, cheerful spark Mistoffelees had missed like a limb the past two months. “Thanks,” his friend said, and Mistoffelees knew it wasn’t just for the bath.

Even so, he stretched and yawned, showing his teeth. “You going to return the favor, then?”

Tugger shook his head and smiled, but obediently went to work. Feeling the familiar coarse rasp of his friend’s tongue on his fur, Mistoffelees relaxed, closed his eyes, and allowed himself to enjoy the peace of a warm, quiet afternoon.

The Rum Tum Tugger was a terrible bore, and Mistoffelees wouldn’t have him any other way.


End file.
